Don't Turn Around (9 page)

‘Something up?’

‘Oh, it’s just that … the spoon … it went missing and now it’s turned up again.’

‘Oh right,’ DI Allison said, before pulling back his sleeve to glance at his watch. ‘Anyway. I just wanted to let you know, this business with Charlie Taylor is going to hit the press. They’re coming out with all sorts of ridiculous theories. They’re even suggesting spontaneous combustion.’

Jennifer nodded in response as she poured filtered water into the glass, reminding herself to act normally. The last thing she needed was her DI putting her on restricted duties. ‘You look tired,’ she said, handing him the glass.

He popped open the top button of his shirt and loosened his crumpled tie. ‘I got called in at three this morning and I’ve not stopped all day.’

‘Are you any closer to finding out what happened?’

‘No. Your teacher friend blew very high in the intoximeter when he was arrested, but we don’t know how he ignited. Steph told me what happened in the office. I don’t think it’s healthy for you to be thinking about this.’

Healthy? What did he mean by that? Jennifer chose her words carefully as the lines between work and their friendship blurred. ‘If you’re worried about my mental wellbeing you don’t need to be. I’ve been given the all clear.’

‘Good, I’m glad to hear it. I’ll keep you updated about Charlie, but if the press call, refer them to the police media department.’ DI Allison drained his glass. ‘I’ve got to shoot off, but if you need anything, just give me a shout.’

‘Sure. Thanks for calling in.’

DI Allison’s visit unnerved her. It was as if he wanted her to believe she was sick. She returned to the counter and the spoon was gone. She pulled open the drawer to find it nestled with the others. ‘Maybe he is right,’ she mumbled, ‘maybe I am losing my marbles.’

J
ennifer found therapy in cleaning
, and was in the middle of hoovering the living room carpet when the evening news flashed up on her television. A young news reporter spoke of the suspicious death, which was being hotly discussed as ‘spontaneous combustion’. He was flanked by a man each side, which was the channel’s usual way of dealing with the case for and against whatever topic they were reporting.

Jennifer switched off the hoover and perched on the edge of her sofa as she took it in.

‘What is your take on this being a case of spontaneous combustion, Professor Morgan?’

The newsroom cameras panned to the right of the reporter to a disheveled expert they appeared to have found in a hurry. He patted his bristled hair. It had the same erratic form as his eyebrows, which were now knitted together in a frown.

‘Well, it would seem that a certain set of circumstances need to exist to make this condition occur, and there have been very few genuine cases. Up until now it has been almost impossible to measure correctly, so while it’s very sad for the family involved, the police are the best people equipped to deal with this forensically.’

Jennifer bristled to hear them talk of Charlie Taylor as a throwaway piece of news. All the same, she found herself straining to hear what the red-faced man to the left of the presenter had to say.

‘ex-Superintendent Jim Reynolds, what do you make of this?’

A film of sweat glistened over Mr Reynolds’ brow under the heat of the studio lights. His chin wobbled as he spoke, his shirt button stifling his thick neck. ‘It’s preposterous; there is no reliable evidence to back up the theory of spontaneous combustion. What we have here is an unfortunate death in police custody, cause unknown. I, for one, will be waiting for the coroner’s report before jumping to any wild conclusions, and it is wholly unlikely one of those conclusions will be spontaneous combustion.’

The professor leaned forward to argue. Jennifer turned off the television as images of Charlie’s face returned to mind. Turning the hoover back on, she attempted to lose herself in the numbness of everyday life. But she could not keep out the thoughts that demanded attention. Something had entered Charlie’s body before death, and she seemed powerless to stop the contact that was persistently invading her own mind. No matter how much she tried to deny it, she knew it was the truth. Whatever had entered Charlie was evil and had killed him. It was most likely the same thing that had killed Johnny Mallet.

Her gut twisted in fear as she raked the hoover over the spotless carpet. She could cope with voices, and vague shadows could be ignored, but this thing had taken form and she was too scared to contemplate it. She was living in two worlds, never fully accepted in either of them. But she couldn’t run away forever. They were calling, drawing her near. It was time to make contact. She owed it to Charlie.

F
rank replayed
the killing so many times in his head it became like a worn rug, loved but in need of replacing. As he left his teenage years behind, his hunger for experimentation grew keen. The hunt was almost as thrilling as the kill. He wasn’t one of those spree killers he read about in his magazines. He was happy to play the long game, even if it meant waiting years. That way he never got caught. Getting one over on the police made him feel invincible, and he was only doing their job for them, after all.

He was amused to discover he was not the only one lurking in the shadows. That evening, as he dragged his feet through the damp grass, the lone figure of a man swigging from a brown paper bag aroused his attention. The man wore a brown leather aviator hat, obscuring his face, and his bulbous nose was flanked by the furry ear flaps either side of his ruddy jowls. The trees bordering the playing fields provided ample cover and Frank followed the man’s gaze to the young boys playing football on the green. He had seen the old man before, leaning against the black spiked fence surrounding the local playground. The curious thing was that none of the children seemed to know who he was. Frank tilted his head and narrowed his eyes like a crow about to pick at a worm. This one was worthy of his attention. Pre-empting his next move, Frank cut through the fields and hid behind the black thorny undergrowth at the back of the boys’ changing rooms. His suspicions paid off. As the game ended, the lecherous old man ambled to the back of the small brick building and peered through the gap in the open frosted windows. Frank watched, disgusted, as the man’s breath quickened, hands fumbling for pleasure under his coat. Hatred rose within, tinged with satisfaction at his find. The man had sealed his own fate, and Frank was happy to take his time delivering it.

F
rank was not conventionally
good looking, but his wavy black hair and dark eyes drew the girls’ interest, if only briefly. His new job as a delivery driver for a local shop helped him keep a low profile, and the old dears loved the person he pretended to be. There were plenty of gossips willing to fill him in on the strange man named Stanley, who liked a drink every pension day. A retired teacher who, rumour had it, had come to Haven after leaving his job under a cloud.

Stanley’s crumbling cottage had an expansive back garden, dense with thickets and briars that scratched skin and tore clothes. It was set back far from the road, having been built long before the development of the town. The only access was via a narrow lane, flanked by low drooping branches, providing homes for the bats that swooped as twilight approached. The rear garden was almost impassable, backing out onto barbed wire-enclosed fields, and nightfall cloaked the house in blackness so thick you could barely see your hands.

Twice a week Stanley trudged half a mile down the lonely road from his house to catch the bus to town, where he bought three bottles of cheap wine. On Thursdays, he picked up his pension and treated himself to a large bottle of whiskey. In his leisure time, he visited anywhere children frequented, and Frank felt a sickness grow in his stomach the day Stanley followed a young child home. It accelerated his plans, and reinforced the justifications for what lay ahead.

Frank chopped back some of the thorny bushes in the back garden for access, but not so much that anyone would notice. Soon it would all be ablaze. He had experimented with fire when he was young, and it had seemed biblical; a ritual purging of the contaminated. Frank recalled the screaming rats from his childhood, their stinking fur ablaze in his father’s wooden shed. It was late afternoon, pension day. The last pension Stanley would collect.

T
he latch
on Stanley’s kitchen window was old and easy to force. Frank inhaled the smell of frying pan grease mingled with tinned cat food. The cat wouldn’t be bothering him tonight. He had seen to that.

The living room was lit by a large gold-fringed lamp, which cast a murky yellow glow on the walls. A gold carriage clock decorated the tiled fireplace, and there were no family photos to be seen. The shabby upholstered brown chair was perfectly positioned in the corner of the living room in front of the ancient television.

Frank smiled at the convenience of it all. Stanley was a hoarder and the house was filled with stacks of newspaper which would serve as useful tinder for the fire. He would be numbed by alcohol, which would prevent him putting up a fight. The thought of touching Stanley’s loathsome skin made Frank nauseous.

Frank rifled through his supplies. He had brought enough rope to wrap around the armchair twice. He wished he didn’t need to use a gag. Listening to his victim plead for his life would have given him immense pleasure, but he couldn’t risk anyone discovering the body until it was too late. Small dust clouds rose as Frank settled down behind the mismatched patterned sofa, and he hoped that Stanley would not smell the canister of fuel he brought along for the party. The scratching of a key in the front door signaled Stanley’s return. Frank ducked his head and steadied his breath, his heart pounding in his chest so loud it was almost audible.

Bottles clinked in a plastic bag as Stanley rattled the door shut behind him. Minutes later the pan sizzled with bacon. Frank bided his time. Stanley hummed tunelessly as he shuffled into the living room and placed his bacon sandwich on a small round table beside his armchair. The removal of his hat revealed a shock of white hair, which he patted into place before turning on the television. Ceremonially, he draped a tartan blanket on his knees as he sat down. He did not need a glass for the bottle of whiskey held lovingly in his right hand. The
Blue Peter
theme tune filled the air, and Stanley swigged his whiskey happily as it played.

The dirty bastard, getting his rocks off watching children on the television! Frank thought, as he curled his fists, willing himself to stay put until Stanley had downed the full bottle. His legs cramped as the programme ended. At last, the empty bottle fell to the floor, and Stanley breathed a regular, contented snore. Frank flexed his leg muscles as he stretched, waiting for a reaction. Stanley was out cold. All the same, he would not take any chances. The cloth would make a nice wad in the old man’s mouth should he kick up a fuss. Opening his bag, he pulled out his tape recorder, a new tool to preserve the memory. He would enjoy replaying his special time. He would relish every second.

L
ying in bed that night
, Frank replayed events as he stared at his ceiling. Stanley’s whimpers were playing over and over, a favourite song in his collection of memories. It was by far the richest reward. He surveyed the singe marks to his forearm. He hadn’t expected his jacket to catch alight like that, but the mission had been a success. This was a moment in his life he never wanted to forget. Frank rifled in his bedside locker and pulled out his sketchpad. Poetry was interesting, but he enjoyed drawing more. The image of Stanley tied to a chair with the rag in his mouth was a memento to be proud of. Frank chortled. The dirty old bastard hadn’t known what hit him.

V
iv’s
long frail fingers turned the pages of the local
Gazette
, and she tutted in disgust. She rarely left her bed anymore, and made it quite clear that it was Frank’s job to support her, now she was too ill to turn tricks for a living. Years of alcohol abuse had taken its toll, and the haggard looking woman with the wiry hair was but a whisper of who she used to be.

‘I see old Stanley Rogers has gone up in flames. No loss to bad rubbish,’ Viv said.

Frank feigned surprise. He relished being able to talk to someone about the murder, even if he couldn’t take the credit.

‘Of course you know why he did it. He was a pervo,’ she continued.

‘Really? Who told you that?’

‘The girls on the street told me about him a long time ago. He liked to do it with boys, the dirty pervo. Good riddance, I say.’

‘That’s not very Christian,’ Frank said, taking away the tray of uneaten porridge from her bed.

‘Good job I ain’t no Christian then, isn’t it?’ His mother cackled at the joke. Frank wondered what his father would think if he could see her now, with only a few years of life left in her. It couldn’t pass quick enough as far as he was concerned.

The shrill ring of the hall telephone interrupted their conversation. It had been recently purchased at his mother’s insistence. Frank picked up the heavy black receiver to hear Shirley’s voice, cooing soft and low.

‘Frank, you didn’t come to see me at work last night.’

Frank sighed, wondering why he bothered with a girlfriend at all. ‘I had to stay in, to look after Viv. She had a bad turn. Anyway, you said you didn’t want to see me again.’

‘Oh, you know I didn’t mean it. It’s just that some of the things you do …You know … it takes me off guard.’

Frank cradled the phone against his ear as he leaned against the wall, cracking his knuckles. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in a phone box. Nobody can hear me.’

‘What do you want, Shirley?’ Frank said, his patience running thin. Women his own age were just too immature, and he hated the pouty tone of her voice.

‘That’s not very nice. I thought you’d be happy to hear from me.’

Frank shook his head. It was always the same. Sleep with a girl and then all they wanted was to talk about feelings. It was boring and predictable and always ended the same way. Admittedly, Shirley was more open than the rest. Rough sex was something she was willing to participate in, but he could tell she wasn’t really enjoying it – those pleading wide eyes, her pale face framed by her dark curls. Especially when he put his hands around her milky white throat. Shirley’s frightened face flashed into his memory, and he felt himself become aroused.

‘I’m sorry. It’s been tough balancing work and caring for Mum. I’ll come and see you tonight if you like. When do you get off?’

That should placate her, and it was just enough to make her feel guilty for being so demanding, he thought.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. How is she?’

‘Not good, I was up all night with her. Her new medication has kicked in so I should be able to get away tonight.’ There was no new medicine. A double up of sleeping tablets would knock her out cold. Frank smiled at the irony. He was just returning the favour for all the times his mother had drugged him as a child. He could see why she’d done it now. It was a neat trick.

‘All right then, but don’t let me down. I get off at ten, but if you come to the pub earlier, I’ll serve you some drinks on the house.’

‘I’ll look forward to it. See you later, sweetheart.’ The words stuck in his throat, but it would be worth the payoff. This had to be the last time. He couldn’t trust himself with Shirley anymore, and as needy as she was, she didn’t deserve to die. But one day he would go too far. No, his next kill would be worthy; pond scum like Stanley Rogers or Michael Osborne.

As Frank washed the crockery, it all became clear. The reason the killings were such a thrill was because it was his calling. The dirty leeches that preyed on the innocent did not deserve to live, and if the police couldn’t clean up the town, he would. He thrust his hands in the sink of warm water, seeking out the dirty dishes. His life caring for his sickly mother was the perfect cover up. He worked hard at blending into the background, doing all the ordinary things, having a job and occasional girlfriend. But one day he would lead people willing to carry on his good work. The natural order would come to pass, and the world would be a better place for it. His father’s voice pleaded in the recesses of his mind, as it always did when he contemplated murder.
Frankie don’t do this; you’re a good boy.
But the voice grew weak, and the image of his father’s face blurred. He couldn’t even remember what he looked like anymore. Frank’s thoughts grew strong. He was a man now, and didn’t need to listen to his daddy anymore.